


One

by GhostofBambi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drabbles, F/M, collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-23 19:59:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16165931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostofBambi/pseuds/GhostofBambi
Summary: A collection of one-word prompt drabbles for Jilytober.





	1. Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BeeDaily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeeDaily/gifts).



> I would like to be able to tell you guys to expect one of these every day in October, but I'd instantly break that promise. I'll try to reach 31 but I doubt I'll do it within the month. Still, let's try!
> 
> All of these drabbles are for Bee because she's sensational. Happy Jilytober, darling.

James Potter is fifteen and his girlfriend is gorgeous.

That’s the first thing he would say about her, were he ever pressed to describe her to a layman, because she _is_ gorgeous and he likes pointing it out. Winifred Barnes is universally gorgeous. Famous person gorgeous. She’s the kind of gorgeous he sees on posters flogging cosmetics when he ventures into Muggle London, the kind that most objective observers couldn’t possibly deny.

Empirical, is the word for it. Winnie’s beauty is empirical, not to be dissected or debated by differing opinions, but simply there, as undeniable as the ebb and flow of the tides.

She’s small and slender and perfectly put together, and her dark brown hair always feels soft between his fingers when they’re snogging in whatever abandoned classroom is closest (the map he’s making with his mates, whenever they finally crack it, will be immensely helpful in such endeavours). Her lips are full, her fingernails always prettily painted, and he can never remember the colour of her eyes, but her lashes are long and curly, and she has a certain way of looking at him that makes him feel all funny.

Winifred Barnes is easily the fittest girl in school, and of all the blokes at Hogwarts, she has settled upon James. She adores him, in fact. Follows him around like a lovesick puppy. Gets jealous of the other girls in his house. Loves him, obviously, though he barely has to try to hold her affections. That has given him a certain distinction amongst his peers.

James Potter is fifteen, and his girlfriend is gorgeous, and it makes other blokes jealous.

Girlfriends don’t get much better than that.

*******

James Potter is eighteen and his girlfriend is beautiful.

That’s not the first thing he would say about her, were he ever pressed to describe her to a layman, because it would give the wrong impression, though it’s certainly true and covers an immensely broad spectrum of wonderful things. A sharp, observant, and brilliantly clever mind is beautiful. Strength of character and courage of conviction is beautiful. A bottomless capacity for kindness, loyalty and friendship is beautiful. A wickedly dry sense of humour is beautiful, as is a surprising penchant for silliness.

And yes, there’s always the obvious.

There’s always her hair, a dark, rich red that gives warmth to her pale skin. There’s the pretty trail of freckles that dust across her nose. There’s her smile and her voice and the way she laughs, and her eyes, of course, which are bright and brilliant and magical. Lily Evans has eyes the colour of emeralds, dark irises pooling into a lighter green, whole constellations swirling through one clever, curious gaze.

Those eyes of hers see everything.

Those eyes of hers see James. They see him for who he really is. They _saw_ him, bore no bullshit and recognised the truth of him, even when the reality of who he was lay concealed behind a conceited, posturing idiot. They see those things because she pays attention.

She always pays attention, to their teachers, to her surroundings, and to the world outside the bubble (soon to burst) that she and her classmates live in. Lily pays attention to her friends, anticipating their needs, validating their feelings, offering support when it’s needed and even (especially) when it isn’t. Her humanity never takes a day off, it’s simply there, inarguable. Undeniable. Constant.

Lily Evans is easily the most remarkable woman he knows, and of all the paths her life could have taken, she has chosen to align hers with his. Chosen to love him. Chosen to smile whenever he holds her hand, and for that, he will never not be grateful. He will never take her for granted. Never stop trying. Never let her down.

James Potter is eighteen, and his girlfriend is beautiful. In her skin. In her bones. In her heart.

Love doesn’t get any better than that.


	2. Study

"That’s my table."

Lily’s quill halts mid-sentence. "Pardon?"

"That’s my table," James Potter repeats, one hand shooting into his hair as soon as their eyes meet. His school bag hangs loosely over one shoulder, and there’s a fleck of mud on his cheek—a remnant, no doubt, of the morning they’d spent planting bulbs in Herbology. "I study here all the time."

Her response to this is the obvious and uninspired, a disbelieving scoff and the lift of an eyebrow. "You’re telling me that you _study?"_

"If that’s the best you can do," he easily replies, "I reckon old age has robbed you of your wit."

"I reckon you’re only two months younger than I am and never had much wit in the first place."

That bit of cheek elicits the slightest lift of his lips, and his hazel eyes seem to lighten behind his glasses, but his smile falls away before it has a chance to properly settle.

"Seriously, though," he says, shifting the strap of his bag so it sits higher on his shoulder, "I’ve got that essay to finish for Sluggy and this is my spot. I can’t get anything done in the common room with those first years running around like wild animals."

"There are plenty of other tables in the library, and I don’t see your name on this one."

"Actually," he replies, with a barely repressed note of arrogance, "you’ll find my name right there." He leans forward, closer to her, bringing with him the scent of something clean and boyish and distractingly pleasant, and drops a finger to the table. "See?"

There, proudly engraved into the otherwise smooth oaken surface, is a small, roughly hewn _James P._

Lily blinks at it.

"Ta-dah," says a smug James. "Game, set and match, Evans."

"So, what? You think now I should reward you for your act of vandalism?"

"What else are you going to do, deduct points and give me a detention for something I did in fourth year?"

"I could if I wanted."

"After we’ve _just_ pulled ahead of Ravenclaw?"

"Well, _fine,_ if it gets you to stop lurking around me like a ghost." She gestures to the empty chair on the other side of the table. "Sit down."

Instead of flinging himself gratefully into the proffered chair and thanking her for her kindness, he remains where he is, teetering rather dangerously to one side.

"Where are you going to go?" he asks her.

"I’m not going anywhere," she says. "We can share the table or you can leave. Your choice."

James expels a loud huff of breath, as if to indicate that she has caused him some great inconvenience, but does as he’s told and sits down, dropping his bag to the floor beside his chair, so Lily returns to her homework.

Except he doesn’t start to unpack, doesn’t load the table with books and quills and rolls of parchment, doesn’t do _anything._

He just looks at her.

For a full minute, maybe longer, try as Lily might to pretend she can’t feel his eyes boring into crown of her head.

Finally, unable to pretend she hasn’t noticed what he’s doing, she pulls her gaze up to meet his, and he rewards her with a grin which tells her that getting her attention was his plan all along, a grin that makes her feel… rather a lot, actually.

 _He_ makes her feel a lot. He always has, and though _a lot_ didn’t necessarily encompass particularly positive feelings, once upon a time, now it’s all flip-flopping tummies and thumping hearts and pesky butterflies fluttering away whenever she catches his eye.

"Those bloody first years, eh?" he says, as if they’re enjoying a spot of idle conversation over lunch. "Making us resort to using the library to work, of all places."

"They’re noisy little shits," she replies, unable to help herself.

"They get worse every year, you know. We definitely weren’t that bad when we were eleven."

"I wasn’t that bad, and you were almost certainly worse." She points her quill at him. "I thought you had a Potions essay to finish?"

"I do," he says, "but I don’t do well with distractions."

"What’s distracting you?"

He answers, not in words, but with a meaningful nod in her direction.

Lily’s heart leaps for joy.

She’s got too much pride to admit that, though, so she feigns an annoyance she doesn’t really feel. "All I’m doing is sitting here quietly, Potter."

"I know, and it’s mightily distracting."

"My sitting here quietly is mightily distracting?"

"You’ve got a very pretty face," he says, so bluntly, as if this completely justifies his lack of productivity. "Not that I blame _you_ for my being distracted, that’s entirely my fault and you’re just sitting here quietly, but my plan kind of hinged on you getting up and leaving."

"You really thought I’d get up and leave?" she retorts, rather than tell him the truth, rather than admit that she finds _his_ face distracting, and that he’s really very lovely, and that they should probably use their time more productively and snog for an hour, or something.

"Why not? I’ve shown you irrefutable proof that this is my table," he says, tapping the smooth, blank stretch of wood just above the crude engraving of his name, "so you’re just being stubborn at this point."

"Oh, _I’m_ being stubborn?"

"As a mule."

"Fine, then," she says, and bats at his hand. "Move."

James jerks his hand away from the table and Lily leans over it, scratching her quill across the blank space above his name, her mouth set in a firm, determined line.

She doesn’t look up until she’s finished, and the nib of her quill has been sacrificed to a fresh, neatly carved _Lily E,_ pettily done in cursive to offset the sloppy mess that sits below her name.

"There," she says triumphantly, and lets her quill fall across her parchment, "now it’s my table, too."

He blinks down at what she’s done as if he can’t believe she’s done it.

Neither can Lily, really. Goodness knows what she would have said if Pince had caught her.

Goodness knows what she _will_ say when Pince notices.

"You defaced a desk," says James, looking up at her after a somewhat prolonged silence.

"Yes," Lily airily agrees. "I did.

"You’ll have to give yourself detention."

"I think that nearly six years of winning back the house points you’ve lost us has earned me one reprieve."

"And that’s what you do with it?" His eyes flick over the engraving again, then he lets out a quick, short laugh. "You realise what that looks like, don’t you?"

She looks down at her freshly carved name, now coupled neatly with his, and feels a sudden warmth rising in her cheeks.

"In hindsight," she admits, "I can see I’ve made a mistake."

"It looks as if you’ve written our names together—"

"Yeah, I got that, you don’t need to explain—"

"It looks as if you fancy me—"

"Nobody’s going to think—"

"No need to clarify, I understand you perfectly." He straightens his posture, drawing himself up, and pretends to adjust a nonexistent tie. "Yes, Lily Evans, I _will_ marry you, but I think we should wait until we’re done with school, or at least until I’ve also come of age. From an entirely legal standpoint, I’m technically still a child for another three weeks."

"I agree, you _are_ a child, but I don’t think turning seventeen is going to cure you of that." Beneath the table, she finds his foot with her own and gives it a quick, harmless little kick with the toe of her shoe. "Now, for the sake of my sanity, be quiet and finish your essay."

He grins at her, nudges her foot in return. "Will you look it over when I’m done, Potions genius?"

"Yes, of course. Will you give me a hand practicing human Transfiguration?"

"Anything for you, darling wife."

She shakes her head and returns to her homework, but she can’t quell her smile, nor the flush that steals across her cheeks, nor the silly, telling butterflies skittering wildly in her tummy. "Thanks, husband."

Lily knew it was his table. He studies here every day.

She wouldn’t have sat here otherwise.


	3. Fly

From what James gathers as he comes to, his was quite the spectacular fall.

At least, that's what he can glean from the hushed conversations—there seem to be several happening at once—that float disjointedly above his head. Some voices are immensely familiar to his ears, while others he merely feels he should know, or _would_ know, if trying to focus didn't make his brain feel like a deflated sheep's bladder being pounded with a mallet.

It occurs to him that he should open his eyes and tell his friends that he's alive, but something tells him that his corneas don't want to be exposed to the light, and it's terribly comfortable down here in... wherever he happens to be.

He's in a bed, he thinks. Beds are good. Pillows are good. Sleep is particularly wonderful.

"I swear I heard a crunch when the bat connected—"

"The way he just _dropped,_ my heart was in my mouth—"

"I know the Slytherins like to fight dirty, but what was Avery playing at? Attacking the head boy in front of the whole school? In front of _Dumbledore?"_

"Oh, please." James's heart skips a beat when he hears a girl's voice, but swiftly plummets with the realisation that it's not the one he wants. That's another girl—Marinette? Marigold? Mary? He's pretty sure it's Mary—making a loud, derisive sound. "Dumbledore has let Avery and his mates off for worse than this. He'd forgive a bloody murderer if they pretended they were sorry. It's McGonagall I'd be watching out for."

"She was _furious,_ to be fair."

"Pomfrey said he fractured his skull—"

"Avery's going to wish he had a fractured skull when I get my hands on him," says an angry voice, one James knows like the back of his own hand. Sirius is barely containing his fury. "And when I do—"

"—in three places—"

"—see how _he_ likes having his head caved in."

"For the love of Merlin, Sirius, you can't just go around caving heads in for revenge—"

 _"—and_ he smashed his wrist to pieces."

"Did anyone fix his glasses?" That's Remus. That's another voice he knows. A short pause follows the question. "Give them here, then. I'll do it."

As he slowly, finally, allows his heavy eyelids to pry themselves apart, blinking as the comforting darkness falls away, James recalls how he had spun around on his broom—after scoring a very impressive goal, his eyes scanning the Gryffindor stands for one particular face—when a sudden, blinding pain had torn through the back of his head and a muddy grass pitch zoomed right towards his face.

A sea of blurry faces hovers over him.

Avery must have hit him in the head with his Beater's bat, attempting to stop the Gryffindor team from dominating Slytherin, which they always do, because they're the best team in the school.

That's good, James thinks. If ever he was going to take a tumble from his beloved Nimbus, he would want for it to be somebody else's fault, rather than a result of his own incompetence. He would also want it to be spectacular and dramatic, leaving his many friends and admirers fearing for his life.

"Objective achieved," he says quietly, and squeezes his eyes shut—one last, indulgent blink—before opening them fully.

"He's awake," says Sirius immediately. A hand shoots out and lands upon his shoulder. "Remus, Peter, he's awake!"

"Yes," says Remus dryly. "It's truly a miracle."

"How are you feeling, mate?" Sirius presses on. "Can you remember anything? Can you hear me?" James feels his shoulder being roughly shaken. "Mate?"

"Glasses," he murmurs, and tries to push himself up. Sirius's arm bands around his back to help him hoist himself into a seated position, and when he's finally sitting straight, James holds out his hand for his spectacles.

Somebody passes them to him at once, and he pushes them on. The blurry faces sharpen into much greater focus.

He has nine visitors: Sirius, Remus, Peter, and all six remaining members of the Gryffindor team. They're still dressed in their waterlogged Quidditch gear, wet hair plastered to their faces. There's even a Beater's bat swinging loosely from Mary Macdonald's hand, though Merlin knows how she got that past Madam Pomfrey.

"Avery cracked you over the head," she tells him flatly.

"Yeah," says James, and lifts his hand to cradle the spot where he'd been clouted. There's not so much as a telling bump. "I'm kind of getting that."

"We ran down to the pitch after you fell," says Peter.

"You were _covered_ in blood, and completely out of it," Sirius cuts in, "muttering nonsense about treacle tart—"

"Then you passed out," says Remus. "Pomfrey fixed you up fairly quickly, but she says you have to stay overnight."

"Pomfrey'd make you stay overnight for a cold, though," says Perkins, the Keeper, who had pulled off some truly outstanding saves earlier. James will point that out at the next practice. He doles out his criticisms in private, but makes a point of giving praise in front of the whole team. "Still, we won the match."

"I'd been going after the snitch when Avery hit you," Ryan explains. "Didn't notice you were down until I'd caught it."

"Good lad," says James, still fumbling with the back of his head, searching for the source of a vague, pulsing pain that he can still feel. "Good lad. What was the final score?"

"320-80."

"Slytherin would have got 90, only Hooch deducted 10 points because of Avery."

"He actually tried to argue it," says Mary, with a dry laugh. "Pretending that his bat slipped—"

Some twenty feet away, the main door of the wing bangs open with a violent vengeance and James—along with everyone else at his bedside—jumps half-out of his skin.

It is then, as Reshma Patil turns around to investigate the source of the commotion, opening the smallest crack in his wall of well-wishers, that he sees Lily Evans.

Lily Evans, who has just burst into the room.

Lily Evans, his friend. Lily Evans, his co-head student. Lily Evans, who James thinks he might…

For whom he _does_ feel rather…

Well.

Her dark red hair, normally so neat and tidy, is loose and limp and rain-sodden, and because it's Saturday (he thinks... no, he's sure, because Quidditch is on Saturdays) she's shed her school robes in favour of jeans and a t-shirt, and the latter is quite damp around the shoulders. She's holding something dark in one hand, clutching it as if she's afraid it might explode if she lets it go, and even from a distance, he can see that the skin around her bright green eyes is suspiciously puffy and pink.

Lily Evans, who has recently been... crying?

"Oh my _god,"_ she breathes, and all but flings herself across the room, scattering his teammates like skittles. As they bounce off one another in surprise, Lily shoves Sirius unceremoniously to one side and comes to a halt in front of the bed, staring at James as if she's never seen him before.

"Watch it, would you?!" Sirius cries, and Lily completely ignores him.

"You're okay," she says, and sags against the bed while a sigh of blatant relief shudders through her shoulders. "Oh my god, James, I was so _scared,_ and McGonagall said I had to calm the first years down, so I had to shake her off before I could—so I wasn't here when they brought you up and I thought you might have—but you're _okay."_

Lily Evans, his mate, his co-head, woman of his dreams, who has recently been crying because she was _worried for his safety._

This may, perhaps, be the greatest moment of James's life.

Naturally, the part of his brain that activates exclusively in Lily Evans's presence kicks into gear with great gusto, and he ruins it immediately.

"Yeah," he says, and pretends to look confused, "I'm okay, but who _are_ you, exactly?"

The thing about Lily, though, is that she's smart as a whip, and has always been able to see right through him. He might as well have hidden behind a pane of glass and pulled silly faces, daring her to guess what he was doing.

"That's _not_ fucking funny," she scolds, with a choked, embittered kind of anger that seems as if it's bursting through a tightly-sewn seam, extending far beyond the reach of her self-control—that, or Lily is simply too upset to care. "Don't you _dare_ make jokes like that."

Then she straightens her back and whacks his arm with the thing she's holding, which James now realises is a woollen glove that has been thoroughly soaked through from the rain.

She's actually hit him. _Him,_ the injured party!

"Merlin, Evans!" he cries, shying away from the flailing glove, and holds up his hands as if in surrender. "Did you come here to check on me, or finish the job yourself?"

Lily lets out a noise that can't seem to decide if it's a laugh or a sob, so it settles on some choked hybrid of the two, and she promptly drops the glove onto the bed.

Then she lurches forwards and throws her arms around his neck.

 _Her_ arms. _His_ neck.

She, Lily Evans, hugging _him,_ James Potter, an unprecedented miracle that has happened only in his dreams before this glorious moment.

Instinctively, his arms close around her waist—keep her there, keep her there, _keep her there—_ and band as tight as they can.

When Madam Hooch had blown the whistle that kicked off the match this morning, the last thing James would have expected was that it would lead to this scenario—him, sitting in a hospital bed with his arms around a crying Lily Evans, who has thrown herself upon him in her relief to see him safe.

Somehow, it feels like more of a victory than winning the match.

He almost wants to thank Avery. 

"I thought you were dead," she murmurs in his ear, her voice wavering, "I really thought you were dead."

"It's okay," he tells her, and she lets out the sweetest little whimper, her arms clenching tighter around his shoulders. "I'm perfectly alive."

"She  _pushed_  me," says Sirius loudly.

"You're not allowed to die," Lily whispers. "You're not allowed to _not_ be okay, not ever, you understand?"

"Completely understood."

"Did nobody notice that she pushed me?"

"You  _scared_ me, James—"

"I know, I've been an absolute scallywag."

She laughs weakly, and does not relinquish her hold. "Don't ever do that again."

"I won't," he says, and means it. If Lily Evans tells him that he's not allowed to die, he'll just have to find a way to achieve immortality. "Never again, I promise—"

It is at this moment that Madam Pomfrey chooses to clatter out of her office, effectively ruining his life.

"What is the meaning of all this?!" she cries incredulously. "This is a hospital wing, not a circus!"

This means, of course, that Lily pulls away from him at once, and steps away from the bed.

"Ten of you around one bed!" Pomfrey wails as she nears them, drawing James's attention away from Lily, who is surreptitiously attempting to wipe tears from her eyes. "Never have I seen the like of it, and Potter having sustained a serious injury? Get out!" She places her hands firmly on her hips. "All of you, out! Potter needs his rest!"

"But he just woke up!" Sirius protests.

"We're not doing anything wrong!" puts in Peter.

"Kick the team out, if you have to," says Sirius, to which Mary and Harper let out identical noises of protest, "but we're his best mates, we should be allowed to—"

"Potter won't recover with all this excitement around him," Pomfrey counters, which is flagrant nonsense, and a little after the fact, because Lily Evans has just hugged him and he will never not be excited again, "You can come back and visit, in  _smaller_ groups, when he has had a chance to recuperate."

"Can't they stay a just little bit longer?" James pleads, and tries his best to look pathetic and adorable. "I've just had a brush with death, I'm feeling very delicate and I need the support of my loving friends."

Pomfrey looks as if she'd like to give him another smack with a bat, but she's a good sort, really, and takes a moment to consider, sucking a long, hard breath in through her nose. 

"One of them can stay," she concedes, and drops her hands from her hips, "for _ten_ minutes, then I want you left alone. And as for the rest of you?" She glares at his assorted friends. "Out. Now."

"Fair enough," says Sirius smugly, and claps Peter on the back. "I'll catch up with you two later."

Remus, Peter, and his teammates bid James their goodbyes, and as they begin to slouch their way out of the hospital wing, their wet boots squelching against the wooden floor, Sirius turns and looks expectantly at James.

"Well?" he says.

"Um," James replies.

He glances over at Lily, who hasn't stirred an inch and is staring Sirius down as if she's about to dole out a detention, should he challenge her to leave the room.

Even with puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks, she can be magnificently intimidating.

"I'll stay with him," she says quietly, posing the statement like it's a kindly offer, though her underlying determination _—I'm not bloody moving—_ is perfectly clear.

Then she boldly picks up his hand and twines it with her own.

James's heartbeat amps up several notches.

"Nah, it's fine," says Sirius coldly, his gaze flicking down to their hands, "you leave."

"I'd really rather stay."

"I'd really rather you didn't."

"Come _on,_ Sirius, you share a dorm, my time with him is limited," Lily calmly reminds him, "plus, I know you have those two-way mirrors—"

Sirius's accusing gaze snaps on to James's face. "You _told_ her?"

James shrugs, unable to feel any guilt in the face of his two favourite people arguing over who gets to stay with him. "It's not that big of a deal—"

"It's a _huge_ deal!" Sirius retorts. "What else have you told—"

"Don't yell at him, he's been hurt," Lily interjects.

"Seriously, mate," says James, managing to sound calm even though his heart is threatening to bust right through his ribs, "you've seen that I'm alive, and Lily was upset, so let her stay, yeah? It's only ten minutes."

Sirius's eyes narrow in a glare.

"You're joking," he says, his voice low and disgusted. "You've got to be joking. You're really going to kick me out?"

"Mate—"

"Am I seriously being overthrown for a bloody _girl?"_

"You're not being overthrown," says James reasonably, "but Lily just got here."

"And you _just_ woke up!"

"Yeah but—" James looks from Sirius to Lily, and then back again. He shouldn't have to state the obvious, and if Sirius is trying to make him in some sick attempt to seek pre-emptive revenge for being ejected from the room... "Mate, seriously—"

"No, that's it. I see where your loyalty lies, and I'm washing my hands of you both," says Sirius—a pronouncement he absolutely does not mean, as he's rather fond of declaring that he's washing his hands of people he'll be perfectly chummy with an hour later—before he stalks away, muttering complaints beneath his breath.

James watches him leave with his eyebrows raised, slanting an apologetic smile at Lily when Sirius slams the door behind him.

"I'm really sorry about him," he tells her. "Prone to tantrums, that one."

"That's alright, I'm used to his moods by now," says Lily gently. "How are you feeling?"

 _Better, now that you're here,_ he wants to say, but that's mawkish and embarrassing, and he's not going to debase himself by— "Better, now that you're here."

He really needs to start exercising better control of his mouth.

Lily, though, does not seem to agree. She laughs rather prettily, and a lovely, raspberry-hued flush steals across her face.

"In hindsight, I realise that my reaction might have been a little overwrought," she says, stroking the palm of his hand with her thumb, "but the way you _fell,_ James, and from so high up—I really thought you might have been killed."

James is expending most of his energy in his efforts to keep from shivering at her touch. He's going to be exhausted after she leaves.

"Nah," he says, and feels giddy, "I'd have been fine. Would have bounced. It takes more than that to kill a wizard."

"I know, but you've got to remember that I grew up in a world where people die slipping over in their bathtubs. That's easy to believe in theory, but when you watch someone fall from fifty feet in the air…"

"I know, I'm sorry—"

"You don't have to be sorry, it wasn't your fault—"

"Yeah, but I hate making you worry," he tells her, and gives her hand a squeeze. "I'm fine, though, honestly. Never felt better."

Lily's eyes flick down to their intertwined hands, and she lets out a little sigh.

"Pomfrey mended the fracture?" she asks.

"I was out cold until a few minutes ago, but she must have. Skull feels all shiny and new. Same with my wrist."

"What do you mean?" Her eyes widen slightly. "What about your wrist?"

"Oh, I broke that, too, but she fixed it for me." He lifts his other hand. "It was only a minor break. Doesn't even hurt."

"I didn't know—that'll be the potions at work, I suppose," she says, then frowns, her gaze darting over to the door of Pomfrey's office. "She _did_ give you something for the pain, right?"

"Er, yeah, I assume she gave me something while I was semi-conscious."

"Not Wiggenweld, I hope? That's good for minor injuries, but a fractured skull—"

"No, I don't think so." He's vaguely aware of a certain taste in his mouth. "I think it was that golden stuff—"

"Did she use a shrinking salve on the back of your head?" Lily presses on. "Because even if your skull's fine, you might have some residual swelling, and if that isn't looked at—"

"Hey," says James, and squeezes her hand for a second time, interrupting her as gently as he can. "Keep talking like that, and Pomfrey will have you thrown out before my ten minutes are up."

The dusting of pink across Lily's cheeks deepens to a richer colour, and she smiles rather abashedly.

 _"Your_ ten minutes?" she says. "I thought they were mine?"

"You might be here, but I'm the one who got to choose who stayed."

"And I'm the chosen one, am I?"

"You are, and I don't regret it, even though you immediately attempted to one-up Pomfrey."

"In my defence, five minutes ago I thought you'd be lying here with your brains spilling out of your head."

"I know, you were terrified," James points out, grinning. "Tears and everything."

"I was only crying because I'd have to shoulder your head duties in addition to my own if you died," she retorts, and undermines her efforts with a sniff. "No other reason, I'm just very busy."

"Not too busy to come running up here in a blind panic?"

"I thought you'd appreciate the theatrics."

"Oh, so now you were play acting?"

"I know you _want_ to believe I was truly distraught, Potter, but I'm going to have to disappoint—"

"Ahem!" says Pomfrey, leaning through her office door. Lily starts at the sound of her voice, her hand sliding out of his grasp. "Time's almost up."

By his estimation, they haven't even had five minutes.

If Lily bursting into the hospital wing on the verge of tears was the greatest moment of James's life, this is clearly the worst.

"Seriously?!" he cries, bristling under the injustice of Pomfrey's whims. "We're not even _close_ to ten minutes!"

"It's been long enough! You need your rest," says Pomfrey huffily, and waves a hand in Lily's direction. "Go on, Evans, say your goodbyes and leave. You can come and see him later."

James opens his mouth to protest again, but Lily places a hand on his shoulder.

"It's fine," she says, "I've got some things to be getting on with."

But James isn't having that, not when he was promised ten minutes. "What could you _possibly_ have to do that's more important than keeping vigil by my bedside?"

"Getting you a present, for one," she says slyly, and leans towards him, her voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. "Speaking of, where'd you keep that invisibility cloak of yours?"

His heart skips yet another beat, this time for an entirely different reason.

How the buggering hell does Lily Evans know about his cloak?

Moreover, how is James going to convince Sirius that he didn't tell her himself?

"My clo—what cloak?" he says, but he's too taken aback to be remotely convincing in his disbelief, which gives him away completely. "I don't—I have _no_ idea what you're referring to."

"Oh, come off it, I know you've got one and I know you used it to convince half our year that the suit of armour near the Fat Lady is haunted," she says, with a wry smile. "If you let me borrow it, I'll get you some chocolate from Honeydukes."

If he let her borrow it, Sirius would _murder_ him, find a way to bring him back to life, then kill him all over again.

If he let her borrow it, it would smell like her.

"I've never let anyone borrow the cloak," he says weakly.

"Not even Sirius?"

"Well, obviously, yeah, I've let my mates borrow it, but—"

"Am I _not_ your mate?"

"Yeah, you are, but you're not—"

"A boy?"

"No!" he yelps. Pomfrey's head pokes out from behind her office door, and he drops his voice to a whisper. "No, it's nothing like that, but Sirius and Remus and Peter are like—"

"Listen, Potter, I'm going to do it anyway, but it'd look really bad if the head girl was caught sneaking out of Hogwarts, so you'll let me take the cloak if you care anything for my honour."

"I'm very mindful of your honour, which is why I don't think you should sneak all the way out to Honeydukes, breaking about a _dozen_ school rules," he reminds her, "just for my sake."

"I've done it before, you know. There's a passage to the cellars behind that statue of—"

"—the one-eyed witch," he finishes, grinning in spite of himself.

"Actually, it's Gunhilda of Gorsemoor," she corrects him, "but one-eyed witch is technically right."

Then she smiles at him, soft and secretive and achingly pretty, and James falls in love with her all over again.

That's no real surprise. He's constantly falling in love with Lily Evans. It happens once a day, at least. He'll be going about his business, talking patrol schedules, working on an essay at their study spot, chatting aimlessly in the common room, and he'll learn something new about her—some carefully unearthed nugget that speaks to her wit, or her kindness—something that turns his heart to molten adoration.

"It's in the trunk at the end of my bed," he tells her, "but you really don't have to sneak out of school for me."

"I know, but I want to, because you're my friend and because you were hurt, and you'd do the same for me."

She's right, James _would_ do the same. He'd do anything for Lily Evans. He's not even ashamed of it.

He doesn't know if he loves or hates that she knows that.

"I really like this," he tells her, instead of getting into that subject, "us being friends, I mean."

"So do I," she agrees, rising to her feet, "for now, at least."

"What do you mean, for—"

"You need your rest, my darling," says Lily, and picks up her glove, stuffs it into her pocket, daintily pretends that she hasn't just floored him with her tears and _my darling_ and _for now at least._ "Honeydukes best caramels, right? You don't need to tell me, I already know."

"Yeah, I—yeah," he says, feeling slightly dazed. "How'd you know that?"

"Because I pay attention," she says, and leans over the bed.

She kisses him.

It's not the full-fledged snog of his dreams, and it's not even on the mouth, but a kiss is a kiss and it's magic all the same—a sweet, swift, wholly unexpected butterfly, pressed softly against his cheek. It's there for a second and then it's gone, and Lily straightens up to replace her lips with her hand, stroking his cheek with her thumb, melding the imprint of her kiss into his skin and making sure it stays, while his heart whips up an almighty storm in its every frantic chamber.

"I'll see you later, yeah?" she tells him airily, and drops her hand from his face. "Caramels and all. Don't go letting any other girls kiss you while I'm gone, or I won't be best pleased."

Then she spins around and walks away, leaving James alone with Pomfrey, who bustles around his bed, huffing and puffing about dangerous sports and safety regulations and the fact that no one respects her rules about visitor limitations.

James doesn't really listen. He doesn't particularly care.

He's thinks he might be flying.


End file.
